


bury my love in the moon dust

by ElasticElla



Series: follower milestone ficlets [21]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 14:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15245703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: Fleur does not like Hogwarts.She does not like the bone-deep cold, the nippy wind that always seems to find a way through her strongest warming charms.





	bury my love in the moon dust

**Author's Note:**

> they're both 6th years don't @ me

Fleur does not like Hogwarts. 

She does not like the bone-deep cold, the nippy wind that always seems to find a way through her strongest warming charms. She does not like living in a cramped carriage. (Magically expanded or not, getting ready in the morning with all the other girls in one bathroom is terrible.) She does not like the dismal weather, overcast ever since the day they arrived. She doesn’t like how the students are separated into four houses, and because they sat at the Ravenclaw table once it became their spot. (Not that Fleur particularly needs to go to another table, she’d just like the option.)

The only maybe interesting place to take a walk is apparently _forbidden_ , and Fleur doesn’t know how Madam Maxime expects her to live here for a year. She’s only gone to one day of classes so far, all her classmates squeezing in with the Ravenclaws. Like most things in Britain, she was less than impressed with the experience- though perhaps the teachers weren’t warned about the visitors? 

(They certainly were and even if not, such a thing shouldn’t affect their teaching so.)

Divination was a joke, an insult to the very art. History of Magic was taught by a particularly dead ghost, and the history itself was so seeped in pro-wizard propaganda she snapped her favorite quill within the first five minutes of his class. Charms was taught by someone competent at least- overqualified even- but the material itself was painfully basic. 

If it was her year for OWLs or NEWTs, she’d be furious. Instead she’s disappointed, sending an owl laden with complaints back to Sam. (She’d been surprised when they decided to stay, but it’s a blessing now, no matter how many favors she’ll owe them to keep up with her proper schooling.)

Sure enough, the remainder of her classes are substandard, and Sam begins owling her assignments from home. Potions is taught by a horrible man who makes rude comments about her blood and refuses to actually teach, Transfiguration is slow due to the ample time given to practice spells in class, and DADA is taught by an Auror who clearly isn’t sane or safe. If Fleur didn’t know Dumbledore was the headmaster, she’d suspect foul play to create an entire generation of incompetent British witches and wizards. (Natalie laughs over her theory one night as they paint their toenails Radiant Witches’ Rushing Rivers, says her standards are far too high. Fleur giggles rather than argues, but Natalie’s wrong: any teachers that aim for mediocrity can hardly be surprised with such lackluster results.)

Fleur enters her piece of paper into the goblet of fire, and only for a moment does she have the traitorous thought: _if she isn’t chosen, she can go back to Beauxbaton_. 

.

She is chosen of course. There was never any question, and Fleur is honored to represent and bring glory to her school. 

.

Fleur discovers Hogwarts’ silver lining as the leaves turn orange. The only person in her class who was able to throw off the Imperius, Angelina, invites her to go flying. It’s something Fleur has never done, a few too many snide comments about her only future as a Veela cheerleader, and she avoided all things Quidditch. But Angelina is lovely, her laughter like bells, and Fleur is in a death defying contest, she isn’t afraid of childhood taunts. 

Angelina is a warm weight behind her on the broom, and her knuckles are pale in front of her. 

“Breathe,” Angelina murmurs by her ear, as if that wasn’t going to send her heart racing. “I’m right here and I won’t let you fall, okay?” 

“Yes,” she says, and Angelina clasps the broom over her hands. 

“Alright, up we go.” 

And Fleur’s adrenaline races as they glide, higher and higher, Angelina’s arms bracketing her. 

She doesn’t even realize she’s laughing until Angelina is too, all nerves dispelled. And by then, it’s the most natural thing to twist around for a kiss.


End file.
